Second Place
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Carson has a crush on Mrs. Crawley's new housekeeper.
1. Chapter 1

Under any normal circumstances, Mr. Carson would have been furious to hear the uproar coming from the servants' hall, just before dinner. After all, Downton is a prestigious home, belonging to the finest of families, he would say. That the servants should show some respect, and wear their liveries with dignity. But Anna had been ill, Daisy is in the kitchen and the others look back and forth unsurely – because this time, it is Mr. Carson who's making all the noise. His bellowing laughter, foreign to almost all his colleagues, echoes in the household. He claps his hand onto the table, almost as if he were in a drunken comedy.

"Oh, you're still here then," Mrs. Hughes says, walking into the hall.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson suggested I stay for dinner," says Mrs. Lewins, who is the cause for Mr. Carson's lapse in judgement.

"Did he, now?" she says, her tone thick with something resembling sarcasm. "I see."

Mrs. Lewins is Ethel's replacement at Mrs. Crawley's house – Mrs. Bird had refused to come back and work for a 'woman with no standards,' a reason which Mr. Carson could completely empathise with. Now, he probably thinks that was the best decision Mrs. Bird ever made – or else he wouldn't have met the wonderful woman on his left. He'd been smiling all evening, and even had a little rose colour in his cheeks. He even seems to have forgotten that Mrs. Lewins was sitting in Mrs. Hughes' seat. Mrs. Hughes tries to meet his eyes, tries tell him telepathically, if he would listen. But after standing awkwardly for a minute or two, she finally walks round the table.

"Beg your pardon, but might you move down a place?" Mrs. Hughes says, giving a terse smile.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes, I'm so sorry!" Mrs. Lewins apologises, moving to the second place down from Mr. Carson. "Do you know, Mr. Carson, when Mr. Crawley brought Lady Mary over to see Mrs. Crawley today, I stopped right in my tracks!" She resumes where she'd left off. "Honestly, she's simply the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. And her manners! So majestic – it was like meeting a queen."

If possible, Mr. Carson's smile gets ever larger, and Mrs. Hughes' frown, even deeper. "It is true, she's perfectly majestic," he nods. "Mrs. Lewins, you have impeccable taste."

Dinner begins in the same fashion, with Mrs. Lewins doing most of the talking, and Mr. Carson, nodding eagerly. The others politely inquire after her, but are cut short by the butler on most occasions, and so they stick to their dinners. Alfred and Jimmy are pleased to see Mr. Carson so cheery, but those are probably selfish reasons. The others make sounds of acknowledgement as they listen to the chatter, while Mrs. Hughes says nothing. Of course, when Mrs. Patmore comes in to see that the dishes are all cleared, she is less subtle than the others.

"You're dining here again?" she says. "My, my. This must be the eighth time this month! And we aren't even two weeks in, yet!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson says. "It's a pleasure to get to know Mrs. Lewins better. We are neighbours, are we not? Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Hughes?" Mr. Carson says, turning to her for the first time the whole evening.

Mrs. Lewins giggles, almost girlishly, and Mrs. Hughes just gives another tight smile. "Certainly, Mr. Carson," she says.

And after dinner, she does not take tea to Mr. Carson's room to discuss the guests coming up in a few days. Nor does she leave her sitting room door slightly ajar, so that he may say goodnight to her. He comes anyway, as she knew he might, and maybe she smiles just a little when she hears his knock.

"Just wanted to say goodnight, Mrs. Hughes," like on most nights.

"Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

He lingers at the door a bit, the residue of a smile still evident on his face, from dinner. After a moment of hesitation, he steps inside and walks towards her, where she is sitting on the armchair, reading. "Was there something you wanted?" she asks, looking up at him now.

Mr. Carson clears his throat. "I just… well…" he pauses. "Mrs. Lewins is quite the company, don't you agree, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Why? Because she loves Lady Mary and all the Crawleys as much as you?" she huffs.

"Well, no, not exactly," he doesn't deny. "She's a lover of show, Mrs. Hughes! She's good at what she does, because she's perfected the art of service, you see."

"I think that _she_ thinks she's quite perfect, certainly. Did you hear the way she kept correcting Daisy's grammar? The poor girl couldn't get a word in edgewise!"

"Intelligence is not a flaw, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson insists.

Mrs. Hughes gives him a disbelieving look, before occupying herself with her novel, once more. Mr. Carson leaves begins walking away, looks back to say something at the doorway, but chooses against it. In fact, he says nothing more on the subject for the next few days, which almost alleviates Mrs. Hughes. On the second day, she manages to look him in the eye when he asks her about inventory. On the third, she acknowledges his bid goodnight. And on the fifth, she's setting a tray of tea and biscuits, to take to his pantry.

She meets him in the corridor, as he hastily puts on his hat and unfastens an umbrella. "Where on earth are you going at this time, Mr. Carson? In this weather, no less!"

She sets the tray down quickly, and walks up to him. "Oh it's just a bit of a drizzle," he says, just before the sky decides to give a deep rumble. "One of the doors are stuck at Mrs. Crawley's house, and Mrs. Lewins asked if I could–"

Mrs. Hughes cuts him off, "Mrs. Lewins asked you. Right then." Without another word, she turns on her heel and goes up to her bedroom, tea and biscuits long forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

In the early morning, as the servants gather for breakfast, Mrs. Hughes walks in with a straight back and a severe expression. Eyes fixated on her usual place, she makes neither niceties, nor a smile at any of her colleagues. She stands behind her chair with a countenance somewhat resembling patience, with her eyes cast down to her hands. The slight down turning of her lips is barely noticeable after all, and if anyone were to ask, she'd simply say she was tired. She watches her fingers determinedly, as if daring them to fidget and expose her nervousness. Perhaps she does this for a few long minutes, and perhaps it is the reason she does not notice the uncharacteristic silence that has fallen over the servants' hall.

"Mrs. Hughes," Anna says, gently. The housekeeper starts, and her eyes remove themselves from her hands immediately. She looks around and notices that everyone is still standing. "Do you know where Mr. Carson is, this morning?"

Mrs. Hughes' eyes become sharp then, and her mouth becomes a thin, straight line. "I'm afraid not," she says, and it sounds almost bitter.

"I saw him leave the house last night, in the rain," O'Brien says, eyes dancing. "I wonder if he stayed the night someplace."

"I wonder what Mrs. Crawley would say about that," Thomas says.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow?" Mrs. Hughes snaps.

Another, more surprised, silence takes over them, while Thomas simply shrugs. "Perhaps it was urgent business," Mr. Bates says, thoughtfully, after a moment.

Before they could say anything else, a loud sneeze interrupts their thoughts, followed by an, "excuse me."

Then, Mr. Carson walks in, and if he is pleased that everyone waited for him or sorry for being late, his face reveals nothing. Nothing except that he has caught a violent cold, and a fever, which causes his hair to mat against his forehead with sweat. He signals for everyone to be seated, and rubs his nose with a handkerchief. To Mrs. Hughes, he turns, maybe to apologise, but she does not look at him. He watches her from the corner of his eye for a long minute, sipping his tea; watching her eyes that have gone hard, and her lips that stay pressed together tightly.

Finally, he clears his throat. "You did a good job keeping them still earlier," he says, conversationally, and possibly, with a playful lilt to his voice.

Her gaze remains on her still full plate. "Thank you," she says.

His brow furrows, as he looks at her. "I'm sorry for being late…" he pauses, looking for a reaction that doesn't come. "I must have caught a cold in last night's rain, and I'm moving a little slower than usual."

"Would you like me to call on the Doctor?" she asks, dutifully.

He begins to cough a deep, chesty cough. "No, thank you. I'll be alright."

"As you wish," she says, without a hint of protest. Mr. Carson's frown becomes deeper.

Mrs. Hughes does not say another word, and as soon as breakfast is over, she puts on her coat and hat, and heads into the village. Mr. Carson only catches glimpses of her throughout the day, through the kitchen window or on the other side of the corridor. He watches her point a dainty finger when she gently chides James, and how she throws her head back a little when laughing with Mrs. Patmore, as luncheon is prepared. On a couple of occasions, when she had felt his eyes on her, she merely acknowledged it with a glance that lasted a fraction of a second. Then, she was detached again, severe and sombre. What he didn't see of course was that, even from a distant room, when he began to cough, she stopped whatever she was doing. She would wait, listening, and when his wheezing quieted, she'd pass by his room nonchalantly, to see that he was alright.

But Mr. Carson isn't alright – and just as they are about to sit down to eat, he blacks out from coughing. Mrs. Hughes is the first at his side, kneeling on the floor, pushing his hair away from his face, though she'd never admit to it. He comes to consciousness only long enough for Jimmy and Alfred to navigate him to his room, where he collapses on the bed, livery, tired lungs and all. He drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the evening, changes into his pyjamas at some indefinite point, and only comes to when Mrs. Hughes knocks on his door.

She enters with a tray of dinner, medicine and a glass of cool water. "I've made you some soup, Mr. Carson," she says, softly.

"So you haven't forgotten me," he mumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Mrs. Hughes doesn't answer, instead, turns to the window and fusses with the curtains, drawing them closed. He must think that she hadn't heard him, because he doesn't see the small smile that creeps into her lips. "Eat your supper then."

Mr. Carson sits up against the headboard of his bed, and she sets the tray in front of him. "Won't you sit down?" he asks, softly, looking into her eyes for the first time that day.

Her resolve seems to be fading as she is near to him, because after a moment's hesitation, she nods and settles on the armchair next to the bed. "Did you say you cooked this?" he asks.

He swears for a second that her cheeks seem pinker than usual, but she turns away, looking at her hands. "Well, Mrs. Patmore is busy preparing for Mr. Crawley's relatives tomorrow and–"

A knock at the door interrupts Mrs. Hughes, and any words of gratitude Mr. Carson might have mustered. It is Thomas, holding a folded sheet of paper. "Excuse me Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, but Mrs. Lewins just dropped by to thank you for last night." He shoots Mrs. Hughes the tiniest, most knowing grin. "I mentioned that you were ill, so she asked me to give this to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," the butler replies, and takes the letter from him. "Goodnight."

Thomas ducks out of the room, as Mr. Carson eagerly unfolds the piece of paper, soup long forgotten. First, his brow furrows, but after a moment, he lets out a hearty laugh. "It's a recipe!" Mrs. Hughes says nothing. "It's something herbal, medicinal, I suppose. She says it hasn't failed her yet." He laughs some more, and coughs a little. "I'll go into the village tomorrow to buy the ingredients."

"In your state?" Mrs. Hughes snaps.

He doesn't seem to notice her tone. "Perhaps I'll ask Mrs. Patmore then," he says, trailing off, eyes looking a little wistful. "Oh, Mrs. Hughes… It's been a long time since I've had a woman want to look after me. I'd forgotten…" He is smiling again, talking more to himself than her.

Mrs. Hughes swallows, and after a moment, stands up. "It must be quite a treat for you, then." She takes the tray from him, soup half eaten and now cold. "I'll say goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She leaves the room without looking at him again, and closes the door with a soft thud. It's dark now, except for the one electric light at the end of the hall. Looking around, Mrs. Hughes sees that she is alone. Then, she takes one deep, shuddering breath and rests her back against the door, letting her head fall. A single teardrop rolls onto her cheek, and into the bowl of soup she'd made for him.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Hi guys - I just wanted to say a big thank you for all your amazing reviews! And an especially big thank you to Tammy and Daimhin for making my day with your kindness.

This chapter's a little bit more inclined towards Mr. Carson, just so that we see both sides of the story. More Mrs. Lewins coming soon though. Muah ha ha.

* * *

It is early afternoon when Mr. Carson comes down from his room, fully dressed and barely recovered. He had sat in his bed all day yesterday, waiting, most likely, for Mrs. Hughes to fuss over him. So that he could fuss in return, claiming that there were ledgers to be filled and wine to be poured. Of course the job came first, but maybe, secretly, he enjoyed protesting to no avail. Or, at least, he used to. After all, she hadn't come yesterday – not even after dinner, with his medicine – and had sent Thomas up in her stead. Thomas, as if _he'd_ ever be a sight for sore eyes!

Chances are, he was dimly aware that he'd done something to upset Mrs. Hughes, but that was as far as it went. Chances are, he is tired of it and wants badly to make amends – but he has not been a man of words for many years. She'd always done the talking, and so they had always come through things, even if they had only agreed to disagree on matters. But now, as he gravitates towards her parlour, it is unlikely that he has anything of consequence readied at the tip of his tongue.

And even if he had, when he sees Mrs. Hughes sitting there, all words would have escaped him. She looks so small and delicate, so uncharacteristically fragile, and it knocks the wind out of him. In front of her, the inventory book lies open and unattended, as she has her face buried in her hands. She might be crying, but she sits very still and without a sound, and it is difficult to be sure.

Mr. Carson swallows. "Mrs. Hughes?"

Immediately, she raises her head, and just like that, all traces of fragility are lost. "Yes, Mr. Carson?" She gives him a professional smile. She doesn't ask where he was at breakfast, doesn't tell him it's too soon to be out of bed.

"How did last night's dinner go?" He doesn't ask why she's been crying, or how he could make it better.

Tentatively, he steps into the room, closing the door behind him fully. He doesn't acknowledge how strange the question sounds – they've never needed to ask about yesterdays. After all, they usually spend their days together. They don't have conversations, in the plural, but rather, they continue one, everlasting conversation that comes to them like breathing. At least, they used to. Slowly, he steps closer, until he is standing behind the chair on the other side of her desk. He watches his fingers trace the wood, almost as if he were asking to sit with her, but not quite.

"The staff managed well, as usual," she says. "Lady Mary asked after you. She was quite out of sorts, though who could blame her? Poor girl."

Mr. Carson nods, but doesn't mention that it was nice to hear her sympathise with Lady Mary. He doesn't ask her why she did not visit him in his room after the first night, doesn't say that he wanted her there. He doesn't thank her for the dinner she'd prepared for him that night, or apologise for the tea they never drank the week before.

"Were you planning to go to the village later?" asks Mrs. Hughes, softly.

"Yes, actually. I have yet to buy the herbs for the tea Mrs. Lewins recommended."

She nods, picks up her pen and puts it back down. She doesn't offer to get the things for him, or attempt to continue the conversation. In turn, he doesn't propose that they walk there together, or tell her that the maroon colour she is wearing suits her. He'd never notice that she purses her lips at the mention of Mrs. Lewins, or ask why she's put such a gap between them. Surely he knows that there is no way to ask without sounding foolish. Knows she'll simply say that she was busy, because in truth, she had been.

"Mrs. Hughes…" he begins. Perhaps he doesn't know, then. Or perhaps he could bear looking foolish, just this once.

"Mr. Carson," she says.

She looks calm and poised, but he can hear the waver in her voice, the way her tongue rolls the r in his name as her accent thickens. He waits now, expectant, perhaps hoping that she will be the one to speak first. That she will tell him what's been troubling her, keeping her far away from him. That she will assure him that it has nothing whatsoever to do with her health. That she'd build a bridge over the gap between them, and that they'd be okay and –

"I thought you should know that James found a scratch on one of the trays, last night."

Mr. Carson blinks, and for a moment, he is disconcerted.

Then, his eyes become sharp. _"WHAT?"_ His colour begins to rise, and his fingers curl inwards. "Did His Lordship notice? No, surely James didn't take it up? Did he? Or was it Alfred? Don't tell me it was Alfred?"

Mrs. Hughes does not reply – she merely looks down at her ledger, almost distractedly, seemingly indifferent to his concerns. "You should be more careful, next time."

The butler gapes at her – opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises his hands from the back of the chair, but reaches for it again. Then, he raises himself to his full height, knitting his eyebrows together, severely. "Mrs. Hughes," he says, harshly.

She doesn't look up, seems to be reading. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"Mrs. Hughes." He grits his teeth. "Are you implying that_ I _was the one who scratched the silver?"

He is watching her face intently now, daring her to look up from the ledger. But she takes her time; leisurely turns the book closed and replaces the lid of her pen, making no attempt to acknowledge his glare. A part of him must know that her movements are too deliberate now, that she couldn't be so apathetic, surely. Not to him. And surely, the same part of him realises that there is no need for either of them to be behaving this way. But perhaps the fact she is doing this to irk him, pushes him further. He walks around the desk, to her side, and has to bend his neck to look at her. Mrs. Hughes regards him for a moment, but then rises from her chair and angles her body so that they are facing one another. He's standing close to her now, too close to be proper. He can feel the heat of her body, her breath on his neck.

"_Mrs. Hughes_," he says, and he's almost yelling now.

Finally, she looks up at him. "Well, you have been preoccupied recently, Mr. Carson."

And there, he sees it, clear as day – the fury, behind the mask. The fire, the bitterness, the tears, the pain. He couldn't pick them out or name them, of course, but right then and there, he sees all of it. He looks like he is weighing her words and any implications they may carry. His eyes narrow at her briefly, before he exhales, relaxing his shoulders once more. For a second, it seems as though he is raising his hand to touch her cheek, but he brings it back down, fingers curled at his side.

"Tell me what it is I've done," Mr. Carson says, gravely. And he's not talking about the silverware, anymore.

Mrs. Hughes sighs, spares a look at the hand he had almost touched her with, and gives him a small, sad smile. "It's nothing, Mr. Carson. I'm sorry. You haven't done a thing."


	4. Chapter 4

**Authors' Notes:** These two are ruining me, I tell you. I struggle so much with this, because I don't know how to capture them, or understand them. Sigh.

By the way, I've made some changes to Chapter 3. I suggest you read that again, before continuing.

* * *

In the real ways, nothing had changed. Downton is still running smoothly, after all. The dinners are served, the ladies are dressed, the linen is still white and spotless. The house is still as graceful as ever, a swan gliding on water – because in the real ways, nothing had changed. It would go easily amiss that maybe, it seems to take more effort now, to be so graceful. And that maybe – a tiny, insignificant detail, really – the two legs that have always been paddling furiously underwater, must now fight to be in sync. Though they have paddled together, side by side for years, meeting in the middle, working as a unit. It's of no consequence, though, it doesn't affect the grand scheme of things.

Because Mrs. Hughes still writes the rotas – her small, cursive hand aligned in the margins. And Mr. Carson still counts the wine bottles, twice, to be sure. He still polishes the silver, still mentions it to her when his jar of varnish is dangerously close to empty. She still nods, adds it to her order list and replaces it in his pantry cupboard at the end of the week. And they sit in their places at the table during mealtimes as they always do, knees close together, never quite touching. It's not as though they don't speak – they do, of this luncheon or that, of how many relatives are coming to stay, of how many rooms to make up.

But maybe, if you looked closely, you'd notice that there is no more sherry. Or if there is, Mr. Carson never brings it out. He doesn't come into her sitting room anymore without a reason, not even to say goodnight. He doesn't chastise her for reading during breakfast, and didn't go to her about Jimmy and Ivy found necking in a dark corner. Instead, he'd thundered at them both, the same, tired lines, of duty, propriety, discipline – all his favourite words were there. Mrs. Hughes had stood there, listened. She'd said nothing on the matter, hadn't told him to take a breath and consider his words, or –

"Right, that's enough."

Mrs. Hughes looks up at her doorway, where Mrs. Patmore now stands, a tray of tea and sugar in her hands. Immediately, flawlessly, she smoothens out her raised eyebrows, pins a certain pleasantness to her face. She rises from her desk to join her. "Mrs. Patmore, what a nice surprise. Do come in."

"Nothin' nice about this visit, Mrs. Hughes," she says, shutting the door. "The tea's just an excuse, so that you tell me what's been eatin' at you. And I'll not be leavin' til I know the whole story."

Still, she maintains that agreeable stance, that cool collectedness about her. "I don't know what you mean."

"Right." Mrs. Patmore sets the tray down, glaring pointedly at her. "You barely touch your food, you're always cooped up in your quarters with some ominous book or the other, you hardly say two words to _Mr. Carson_, never mind me!"

Mrs. Hughes bites her lip. "It's nothing to worry about."

"And don't get me started on him–" she continues, like she hadn't heard. "I'm telling you, Ivy says Jimmy's _this_ close to handing in his notice, at the rate he's going – For God's sake, you used to be able to shut him up!"

"Mrs. Patmore," says Mrs. Hughes, evenly. "Mr. Carson has every authority to scold the lads when they're in the wrong."

She is scoffing now, almost laughing at the housekeeper. "You're not going to tell me then, what's bothering you?"

The look on her face makes it certain that it is merely a rhetorical question, that Mrs. Patmore does, actually, know exactly what's bothering her. She sighs deeply, holding onto her teacup with two hands. She has been holing herself up for almost a month now, distancing herself, smiling at all the right moments – that same, practised smile. Maybe all the solitude has finally gotten too much, or sharing a cup of tea with a friend finally breaks her, because it's been so long. So very long, and her lips are pushing together, and her eyelashes catch a few unshed tears.

"This has always been enough for me, you know," she says, quietly. She gestures to the sitting room, with all her pictures, figurines, memories. "I was happy to work my way up, spend all my hours doing this or that… as you know, we don't have much outside Downton, but… I'd begun to think that inside these walls, we had a few… constants of our own." Mrs. Hughes looks at her lap now, her thumb tracing the rim of the cup. "I suppose it just goes to show, you should never take anything for granted."

Mrs. Patmore shakes her head, reaches for her hand. "I don't think you've taken anything for granted that–" she hesitates. "That wasn't planning on sticking around."

Now, a small, disbelieving smile creeps onto Mrs. Hughes's lips. It's a rare, genuine smile, a genuinely sad one. "I've never been a sentimental person, Mrs. Patmore… but I admit, it hasn't been easy… adjusting to the – changes, as of late."

Mrs. Patmore squeezes her hand, nods her head sympathetically.

And after a long moment of silence, of looking into empty space, Mrs. Hughes stands. "Come on, I'll help you tidy up."

Together, they gather the teacups, the plate of biscuits that remain untouched, the kettle. Mrs. Hughes carries the tray, following the cook into the kitchen. When she's done putting the biscuits back in the tin, she turns towards his office, probably out of habit. She can see him now, across the corridor, past his open door. He's sitting at his desk, pressing the back of his pen against his lips, as he frowns at the papers in front of him. He's pushing his mouth into a straight line, the way he does when he's not happy with something, and she probably doesn't realise it, but she's staring at him. She's staring at him, and her eyes are going soft, and he must feel it because suddenly, he turns. He turns his head to meet her eyes and his lips curve into the barest hints of a smile. She doesn't push him away now, doesn't look away immediately. And maybe she returns his smile just a little, because he's raising his hand now, giving her a little wave. Mrs. Hughes bites her lip, perhaps holding down a laugh, and waves back.

Yes, perhaps in the real ways, nothing had changed.


End file.
